


the firefly on your finger

by poetic_leopard



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Childhood Friends, Feelings Realization, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Growing Up Together, M/M, Tsukishima Kei & Yamaguchi Tadashi Friendship, Tsukishima Kei is a Dork, the lead up to two boys in the dark addressing their feelings for one another, the timeline might be a little whack so take it as an AU with canon elements if you want
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-07
Updated: 2018-02-07
Packaged: 2019-03-15 02:16:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13603458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poetic_leopard/pseuds/poetic_leopard
Summary: Tsukki stares down at their entwined hands, as if he's attempting to read a transcript in a language he isn't able to speak. His expression does not match Yamaguchi’s dream-lit one, but something within it is drawn to the notion of a new discovery. They’re a pair of kids, after all, and it doesn’t have to mean anything. [Just a short series of select instances, where Yamaguchi addresses some of his Tsukki-related feelings.]





	the firefly on your finger

_guess love is a response of the body it haunts, and we do what it wants._  
  
_-lights, muscle memory_

* * *

+

The world is split into the weak and the strong. 

The strong prey on the likes of the weak, and the weak often oblige—because  _someone_  has to bite the bullet and maintain the balance. While the weak can learn to be strong through observation and resilience; it’s always double the effort when you’re not particularly cut out for the hard life. What the strong often fail to realize though, is that they  _need_  the likes of the weak. The weak are essential for the strong to persist upon their uphill battles. The weak are stepping stones, they are chinks in armour, they still contribute to the larger picture, even if its in shoddy, minuscule ways. 

The world is split into the weak and the strong—and sometimes, the weak fall in love with the plight of the strong.

Sometimes, the strong love them back.

This is something Yamaguchi Tadashi knows to be true, because he’s learned that the weak must pursue the strong in order to turn their fate around. 

At the tender age of ten, Yamaguchi has already accepted his averageness. His parents always feed him fairytales of grandeur, but it's never been something he's personally bought into. How can  _everyone_  be special? That’s just not statistically plausible. The world is millions stacked upon millions.  _Are we all special? If we’re all special, aren’t we all the same? Doesn't it make sense, that in a world meant for certain souls to shine, others must remain stuck in the shadows?_

Yamaguchi doesn’t care to be special. He thinks it takes equal guts to come to terms with his own weaknesses. He is just another spec of sand in an infinitely stretching desert. He is always the one picked last on sports teams. His legs are uncomfortably long and his knees are awkward and knobby. The other boys call him names and push him down because they can. He’s prone to clumsiness and so he has to keep at least a meter of a distance from everyone else around him at all times. While he can run track just fine, he doesn’t particularly enjoy the sweating. He does okay at school—about enough to get a passing grade on every subject but he’s not going to be a genius. He has a low attention span and his handwriting is terrible. He isn’t  _slow_  or anything. He can manage most things just fine; but he isn’t particularly talented either. Last year, a girl from his class told him she would be skipping an entire year because her eidetic memory made her excel at almost every subject the school board had to offer. His neighbor’s son is apparently so gifted; he can play nine different instruments. The most impressive thing about Yamaguchi is probably that he can fall asleep anywhere and in any given position. If only they had a nobel prize for excessive sleeping, Yamaguchi is sure he’d hold the award uncontested. 

Then, on a clear spring morning that was shaping up to be an otherwise lackadaisical day, Yamaguchi met Tsukishima Rei. Well  _met_  is a bit of an overstatement considering the other boy barely acknowledged his presence—but that didn’t matter, not to Yamaguchi, who’s entire world had just reconstructed itself. The boy had cast him aside like he was merely a speck of dirt on his shoulder, but in doing so, he’d gone ahead and turned everything Yamaguchi believed in on its ugly heel. 

Yamaguchi often plays right into the hands of bullies. He’s an easy catch, snot-nosed and naive as he is. He is always so quick to falter. The physical blows aren't half as bad as the things they say. Words like _useless_ and _stupid_ and _loser_ orbit his brain for days and he soaks up their insults like cotton. They hurt his feelings, he goes home crying and gets over it the next day. It had been a vicious cycle, but one he was so accustomed to that it no longer made much of an impact.  All it had taken was one derisive retort from Tsukishima to make them stop. It was almost as if whatever he said was god’s word. Yamaguchi couldn’t help but notice that when Tsukishima said things, the people around him seemed to believe him. Perhaps it was the pure, scathing conviction in his tone that delivered like a punch to the gut. He seemed like an otherwise quiet person, so when he opened his mouth to say something, people  _listened_.

In the aftermath, all Yamaguchi could think was how immensely _cool_ the other boy was.

He remembers pulling himself to his feet and dusting off his shorts, eyes wide as a treasure map and cheeks beaming at a departing Tsukishima, who slipped into the sea of bustling students with little to no regard for anyone else. Yamaguchi had been enthralled. Tsukishima was baffling in his demeanour. On one hand, he was absurdly tall (towering over even some of the middle schoolers). He didn’t seem particularly strong. He was slim and wore a big pair of glasses, which in itself should’ve made him subject to teasing. Then again, he’d never seen anyone with skin thick enough to berate the kids at school with the most vicious of reputations, and Tsukishima had barely battered an eyelid as he cruised past them with a ballsy remark. So where did Tsukishima fall on the spectrum? He was not weak. There was no way. Was it possible that there were other ways to be strong, even beyond the barriers of the physical? 

Yamaguchi didn’t know, but he was dying to find out. 

* * *

They’re both signed up for the volleyball club. 

Yamaguchi thinks that volleyball might be the one sport he might not aggressively dislike. He has the height, he can be quick on his feet when need be and he’s a decent jumper. Volleyball requires players to be spry, but doesn’t require half as much of the brute force common to other sports. Yamaguchi has always admired the older players, how they seem to be utterly exhilarated when they play; as if under some primal charm. The volleyball team always looks like they retain a certain reverent love for the game that never wears out. There's something floaty and distinguished about the ways in which they play. Asides from that, volleyball is one of those team sports where you’re allowed to be a cog in the machine. It does not matter if a teammate is more capable than you, because it’s essentially a cumulative effort towards a common goal. Maybe Yamaguchi likes the idea of contributing to something without messing it up or playing the perennial punching bag.

Yamaguchi sees Tsukishima again, and this time he’s determined to get him talking.

The spacious volleyball court looms around them like the belly of a sleek, ostentatious beast. The court is thriving with the sound of sneakers squeaking against polished floors and balls dribbling bestial as hooves, interrupted only by the occasional shriek of a warning whistle. The air is thick with the unpleasant odour you get whenever deodorant mates with sweat. The newbies are all lined up on the stairs, their coach having coerced them into sitting back and observing the practice game, now launching in full swing. The boys are a mismatched army of anxious heartbeats and veins pumping with anticipation. 

Tsukishima sits in the corner farthest from everyone else with his chin sinking into his palm. He looks perfectly bored as Yamaguchi approaches him, remaining tentative as he plops down besides him. The other boy doesn’t react at all. His pale eyebrows are softly drawn up and the color of his hair reminds Yamaguchi of wheatfields in the summer. The eyes behind the rimmed pair of glasses reflect a calm detachment from the world that surrounds him. 

Despite the knot in his stomach, Yamaguchi wills his throat to function.

“Thank you,” he keeps his voice low and picks a spot at the ground to stare at. Tsukishima makes a small, confused noise, as if attempting to communicate while exerting the least amount of effort. “For telling those bullies off for me.”

He feels the other boy’s gaze flitter to him for a microsecond, before rolling off him again. “I didn’t do anything  _for_  you.” He states. “Besides, lame as they were, it was lamer of you to sit there and take it.” 

Yamaguchi breaks into a small frown. “But… What was I supposed to do?”

“Do I look like a life coach?” Tsukishima mumbles, his attention never deviating from the game. Someone scores and there’s an outbreak of infectious cheering—an activity Tsukishima takes no part in. They’re quiet again and Yamaguchi has to wrack his brain for the right thing to say, but the right thing never comes, so he settles for small talk instead. 

“I like volleyball,” he says, with a small grin. His eyes are wide as he stares out at the second-years in their vivid team colors—each player standing guard in their own, designated spot. Their expressions are fierce, their feet poised for flight. _No, not just cogs in a machine._ They each have an irreplaceable role to fill. Birds of a feather.“I bet being out there in the flesh feels like being a part of something so much bigger. What do you think?”

“Please stop talking to me.”

“Don’t you get tired of being by yourself all of the time?” 

“No.”

“I’m Yamaguchi Tadashi,” he pushes on. “What’s your name?”

“Go away.”

Yamaguchi sighs and falls silent. He isn’t sure what to do. He’s never been rejected by someone he’s tried to befriend before, and somehow it stings worse because it’s this boy. This boy who stood up in front of the so-called strong so coolly! When the practice game ends and it’s their time to get out on the court, Yamaguchi is relegated to ball duty. He wheels the cart around and watches the golden-haired boy play like the wind. His tosses are elegant, his receives are steady and when he leaps up to block he’s an all-out tower of defence. The time out whistle goes off and Yamaguchi offers him a towel, which he graciously accepts. Yamaguchi can’t contain himself as he breaks into a gushing rant. “You were amazing,” he babbles, shaking his head vigorously. “It’s like you’re a natural at this! That last strike? I thought the ball was going to  _explode_ and what’s crazy is it doesn’t even look like you’re putting in half as much stamina as everybody else!”

To Yamaguchi’s utter surprise, Tsukishima actually breaks into a little, acknowledging smile. Yamaguchi thinks that he should smile more often, because it suits him. It makes his eyes—which are a crisp golden-brown like the honey encrusted flakes he sometimes has for breakfast—gleam in the way of raindrops on a windowsill; sparkling in the sun. “My older brother is Karasuno’s ace,” his voice betrays a sense of pride, making Yamaguchi’s legs go all weak. “No way! Really?”

Tsukishima offers him a speculative glance, before rolling his shoulders in a dismissive shrug and handing the used towel back to Yamaguchi. “My name is Tsukishima Kei,” he says. “My brother is Tsukishima Akiteru.” Yamaguchi can’t help but let out a small, excited yelp. “Oh wow! I think I might've heard of him!”

Tsukishima nods before beginning to turn on his heel. “I wouldn’t be surprised.” The other boy is halfway towards the middle of the court when he offers Yamaguchi a sort of offhanded side glance. “So, Lame-Boy. Are you going to play or just collect dust on the sidelines?”

Yamaguchi feels his entire heart ignite.

“I’m coming, Tsukki. Wait up!”

He drops the towel and follows him into the womb of the court. Tsukki passes him the ball, but Yamaguchi reacts a little too late and it rolls off past his feet. “Don’t call me that,” his tone has returned to neutral. Yamaguchi grins as he crouches down to pick up the ball. “But it’s so much less of a mouthful!”

"You're one to talk, Yama-I've-already-forgotten-the-other-half-of-your-name." 

"Rude,"

"Get used to it."

* * *

It’s a quarter past eight in the evening and the sky outside Yamaguchi’s window is a deep, blackening purple like an eggplant gone bad. The two boys lie on Yamaguchi’s bed in companionable silence. Tsukki’s leaning against the headboard, crossed-legged in his dinosaur pajamas with his nose buried in a novel so fat it’s thicker than the width of his wrist. Yamaguchi’s lying on his stomach with his feet dangling aimlessly up in the air, his face scrunched up in concentration as he attempts to decode his math homework. He’d invited Tsukki over earlier that day to study together, but Tsukki is six chapters ahead of the rest of the class and so he’s just keeping Yamaguchi company instead. Yamaguchi keeps getting distracted by the way the evening light floods into the room and waltzes across his bedroom walls. He wants to go play a video game or maybe go outside and practice volleyball. This is boring and why does he need to learn it, anyway?

Why else would they invent calculators if not to eliminate the point of having to learn math? It seems redundant. 

Not to mention, Tsukishima is so quiet besides him that if it weren’t for the occasional sneeze or jerk in movement, Yamaguchi would forget that he’s even there. A part of Yamaguchi wants to ask Tsukki for help, the other boy could probably solve each and every single one of these equations in a heartbeat, but Yamaguchi doesn’t want to come across as  _stupid_ ; so he chooses to suffer in silence instead. He cocks his chin slightly to sneak a glimpse at his friend and suddenly his throat feels all warm as if he’d just taken a sip of hot chocolate.

He’s never seen Tsukishima look this invested in something before. His long, thin gold-tipped lashes dip eagerly as he scans the page with voracious wonder alight in his eyes. His features are all keen and smoothened out and he’s got his lips pressed together in idle thought. Yamaguchi can’t help but think that Tsukki is always so clean and well dressed. He is wearing socks and Yamaguchi is not. Yamaguchi has a big band-aid on his nose from being decked in the face with a volleyball in flying momentum. Yamaguchi’s got plenty of bruises from always bumping into things, his skin reduced to a canvas of technicolor battle scars. Tsukishima, unlike all the other boys their age, has soft, unmarked skin. His fingernails are bluntly cut and he always tucks his curls neatly behind his ears. Yamaguchi’s own hair is super messy and always falling into his eyes because he refuses to go to the barber. They’re so different from one another. Sometimes Yamaguchi can’t help but feel like it’s a miracle they’re even friends. And they are; that much he’s certain of now. They’ve been friends for about eight months. Yamaguchi had to practically wear Tsukki down into a somewhat mutual friendship, but now, things are slowly beginning to fall into place.

Tsukki actually answers to the nickname Yamaguchi gave him, sometimes they’ll even walk to school together and a couple of days ago, Tsukki started joining him at his table for lunch. Yamaguchi won’t say it out loud, but they feel like monumental victories. He just hopes that Tsukki enjoys spending time with him just as much as Yamaguchi does. After all, Tsukishima doesn’t seem to keep a lot of people around, but he’s starting to make an exception for Yamaguchi—and that has to count for something, right?  

Yamaguchi goes back to his notebook but the numbers just don’t make any sense.  _Whoever decided to rope letters in with this hellscape ridden with numbers must surely be evil._  Yamaguchi lets out a short huff of defeat and drops his forehead against the book. It smells like old paper and chewing gum wrappers and dusty classrooms. He pulls himself up on his knees and turns to Tsukki, who looks so engrossed that Yamaguchi is half-tempted to light a match just to see if he’d react to a flame.

“What’re you reading?” Yamaguchi asks, smiling sheepishly through the gap of a lost baby tooth.

“The Forgotten Kingdom of Eleutheria,” Tsukishima replies, without looking up from his book. “Did you finish?”

“Math _sucks_. I give up. There’ll be robots to do all our finances in the future anyway,” Yamaguchi grumbles, before leaning in to peer at Tsukishima’s book. “What’s it about?”

“It’s about a kid, who refuses to do his homework, and then suffers for eternities to come, as he's left adrift in a world where one must wield the power of basic mathematics to survive."

“Very funny,” Yamaguchi pouts, and Tsukishima seems unperturbed by the fact that Yamaguchi has now taken to trying to stick his face in between the pages.

“Seriously, I wanna know what it’s about.” Tsukishima lifts an eyebrow, before rolling his eyes and giving in. “It’s about this young, renowned king who goes missing and there’s a bounty on his head because he’s rumored to be an underworld criminal. He ends up abandoning his kingdom and stealing a dragon because he’d rather go on adventures than be jailed to a country that he isn’t interested in ruling. So now he’s got the royal guard on the hunt for him along with this ancient group of wiccans that want to capture him for their own mysterious purposes.”

“That sounds really cool.”

Tsukishima frowns in contemplation. “It’s… magical.”  

“But I’d fall asleep trying to get past the first page,” Yamaguchi admits. 

_Unless maybe you read it to me. Your voice is nice and lulling, like the breeze outside._

“You’re missing out,” Tsukishima says. “These books are a better alternative to the real world.” 

“Is that why you like reading so much, because you wanna escape your life, like the king in the story?”

“Are you trying to psychoanalyze me?”

“I don’t know what that means but maybe?”

Tsukishima just shakes his head before reverting his attention back to his beloved book.

“Finish your homework.”

Yamaguchi doesn’t  _want_  to finish his homework. He  _wants_  to talk to Tsukishima more. For someone who doesn’t talk a lot, he has so many interesting things to say, and Yamaguchi wants to know more about the story. Tsukishima however, doesn’t look like he’s going to budge any time soon, so Yamaguchi leans forward and playfully snatches his glasses off of his face, before slipping them over his own eyes. To Yamaguchi, everything beyond the glasses turns into a blur of colors. “Whoa, is this how aliens see?” Tsukki’s mouth falls open in outrage as he casts his book aside. “I’m Tsukki,” Yamaguchi chuckles. “I like to use big words like ‘cacophony’ in my daily vocabulary and I think the real world is lame! Quick! Someone find me a dragon!” 

“Hey, I can’t see,” Tsukki snaps, abandoning his post in favor of tackling a giggling Yamaguchi, who’s managed to fall back on his spine in his fit. “Give it back!” Tsukki towers over the other boy and pins both of Yamaguchi’s wrists to either side of his head, before snatching his glasses back. Yamaguchi’s short outburst of laughter mutates to a small series of hiccups and Tsukki pushes his frames back up against his face, glaring down at him in utter frustration. Yamaguchi’s laughter dies down as he stares up at him, suddenly taken aback by how undeniably _pretty_ the other boy looks, with his hair slightly disheveled and that piqued look in his eyes that reminds Yamaguchi of sunsets and hazelnuts and other nice things. There’s an odd, endearing pair of impressions that appear in either one of his cheeks when Tsukishima stretches his mouth a certain way. Had Yamaguchi ever noticed that before? He doesn’t think so, but his chest is sticky with inexplicable warmth. Weirdly enough, Tsukki is staring back at him, eyes wide and—are his ears turning a shade of pink or is that just something Yamaguchi’s imagining?  

“The look on your face was priceless!” Yamaguchi points out, teasingly.  

Tsukishima pokes Yamaguchi under the arm before withdrawing. “Shut up, Yamaguchi.” 

“Hey!” Yamaguchi pipes up, pulling himself up on his elbows. “There’s something I wanna show you!”

“Actually, it’s getting late,” Tsukki mumbles, back to his reserved self. “I should go home.” 

“Wait!” Yamaguchi insists. “You’re gonna love this. I swear! There’s magic in the real world, too, you know.” 

“Yeah,” Tsukki sounds utterly skeptical. “Like what?”

Yamaguchi is already staggering off the bed and falling into his shoes.“I’ll show you!” Tsukki looks like he’s going to be honest-to-god ill. He fixes his friend with an exasperated stare. “Come on!” Yamaguchi doesn’t give Tsukki the chance to have a say as he turns back in time to grab his hand and leads him out the bedroom door—book left abandoned under a pillow. “Come  _on_!” 

Yamaguchi leads a reluctant but obliging Tsukki out into his backyard. Night wraps around them like a soft hug and the grass they collapse in is dew-ridden; limned with faint moonlight. The sky is reduced to a network of lazy clouds. The slightest hint of a nearby storm lingers on the tip of the wind’s tongue, but for now, it is pleasant and the crickets sound electric and foreign. Yamaguchi has to literally pull Tsukki down by the hand, because he’s too wary to sit.

Tsukki takes his hand away very quickly, but he leaves Yamaguchi’s own palm tingling and hot. 

“What are we doing?” Tsukki demands, hugging his knees to his chest—probably to avoid getting grass stains all over his legs. Yamaguchi’s not as bothered, he spreads his legs out in front of him and leans back casually, wrists sinking into the damp earth. His family’s backyard is spacious and ridden with shrubbery. The rest is pretty barren except for the milky-white vines of flowering pears and the bracelets of emerging saplings his mother recently planted. They catch a glimpse of the jeering yellow eyes of a cat from between shapeless clusters of trees. 

Yamaguchi squints his eyes for a moment, until he spots one—and then a couple more.  

“Look,” he whispers, pointing in its general direction.

“Fireflies?” Tsukki murmurs. 

Yamaguchi nods, delighted. “We have tons in our backyard. Sometimes I can see them from my bedroom window at night.” They stare up in awe as sparse, flickering haloes of congregating lightning bugs begin to appear against the routine blackness, rippling in the air like miniature flames. It smells of nectar and wet bark, and something else, like the vase of potpourri his mother keeps on the living room table. 

“It’s not magic that makes them glow,” Tsukki’s voice is strangely placid. “It’s just a chemical reaction.” 

“Bioluminescence, right?” Yamaguchi does remember  _some_  of the things he’d learnt in bio class.  

“Oxygen combining with calcium,” Tsukki nods. “Nothing magical about science.” 

As he props a hand under his chin, Yamaguchi turns over so that he’s facing Tsukki. “But isn’t science the closest thing we have to magic in the real world?”

Tsukki is quiet for what feels like quite a long time. Yamaguchi is torn between watching the capering fireflies and staring at his friend, who looks nothing short of a firefly, with his pale hair and fair skin catching the light of the burning moon. When he speaks up again, there’s something sad and ripe with yearning in his voice.

“Fireflies are just a bunch of underwhelming bugs. And they have short lifespans. They live long enough to produce larvae, and then they die.”

“Oh,” Yamaguchi smiles, but it comes off fragile and a little bit forced. “I didn’t want to know that.”

Tsukki is unaffected. “I’m sorry the explanation isn't rainbows.”

“Hey, Tsukki,” he's hoping to enlist a change of subject. “What makes your stories so great?” 

“They’re stories about bravery and mystical creatures in fantasy settings,” Tsukki mutters, with a small, dazed sigh. The light the bugs give off glows against the rims of his glasses. “They resonate, and that’s more than I can say about reality.”

Yamaguchi half expects Tsukki to get up and leave, but he just sits there, watching the fireflies with a disillusioned look on his face. A long silence follows. Yamaguchi realizes that the bony hilts of their knees are brushing and wonders if he’s breathing too loud. Tsukki catches him staring and slants a gaze at him. He waits for a beratement that doesn’t follow. Instead, Tsukki just tilts his head back as if hoping to catch snow on his tongue, and closes his eyes.  

“Why is it that you’re so interested in me?” he asks, shortly.

“Because I think you’re interesting?”  

Tsukki makes a noise of disbelief. “You’re wrong.” 

Yamaguchi smiles. “And you’re not always right.”

Tsukki opens his eyes. What they hold is distant, without being stony. It is insipid and reflective and tinged with just the right amount of disbelief.

On a whim that crawls over Yamaguchi within the resplendence of the moment—and because they’re a pair of kids that are allowed to show affection without it meaning anything life-changing, Yamaguchi threads his fingers through Tsukki’s—whose are long and cold but feel so undeniably good against his own. Tsukki’s hand in his is limp and nonparticipating, but he doesn’t pull away, either. The world around them (drenched in fireflies and the blue-silver of the moon) kind of slips away because they’re holding hands and why does it make Yamaguchi’s heart pound like it’s going to escape from his chest?

Tsukki stares down at their entwined hands, as if he's attempting to read a transcript, in a language he isn't able to speak. His expression does not match Yamaguchi’s dream-lit one, but something within it is drawn to the notion of a new discovery.  

They’re a pair of kids, after all, and it doesn’t have to mean anything. 

* * *

It’s the night before a big game and they’re changing out for practice.

Yamaguchi has always thought that the boy’s locker room looks sullen enough to double as a prison, with its hospital gray walls and narrow spaces and that sort of crowded, ugly;  _mortifying_  feeling of being enclosed in with a bunch of half-naked bodies, with disparaging pairs of eyes and mouths equipped like guns that've got their safety off. The cherry on top being it always smells like rancid old socks and swampy sweat. Yamaguchi has a lot of locker-room memories, none of which are remotely pleasant. He’s always loathed having to change out in front of the other boys who do nothing but judge and cackle and boast about rudimentary bullshit like chest hair and penis sizes. So why is today any different? They’re fourteen years old and Tsukishima—his best friend, is changing out right in front of him. Sure, he's changed out in front of him a million times before and Yamaguchi hadn't ever really thought about it then. Not the way he's thinking about it now. Why did nobody warn him about this? When did his brain get replaced with a porn magazine? It shouldn’t make him so nervous, but his mouth is reduced to sandpaper and his chest feels all too hollow; as if maybe his heart’s long evaporated. He fiddles with the hem of his t-shirt. He knows he’s supposed to hurry up but his arms feel too heavy to be of any use.  

He doesn’t mean to stare.

He really doesn’t.  

If Tsukishima notices, he doesn’t seem to care. He pulls his shirt up over his head in a fell swoop and shoves it in his locker, and he always takes his glasses off when he’s changing, which is disconcerting. Yamaguchi is so used to seeing him with his glasses on that it feels like witnessing a completely different person. The shadows beneath his eyes that Tsukishima usually does a pretty good job at veiling, are easily palpable. There's the way his lashes dip like butterfly wings, and the pooling gold of the discerning eyes underneath; the sharp curve of his nose. Yamaguchi’s own eyes betray him as his gaze dawdles on the prominent jut of Tsukishima’s Adam’s Apple, past the satellite dish of his collarbones and the lean muscles of his chest—all packed in skin like the creamy surface of a latte, like sunlight on water, like something Yamaguchi wants to reach out to touch. It’s the way his jawline cuts like a half-moon above his neck and how the blue trajectories of his veins are visible along the angular length of his arms. There’s something less immaculate about him now, a body utilized and grown into. There’s a thin, shapely scar along the side of his abdomen and a beauty spot just a little beneath his left nipple. Yamaguchi’s caught up in the thin, pale line of hair that disappears into his waistband when he feels his breath catch and his blood stutter and he turns away so quickly he almost trips over his own feet. 

“Are you that nervous that you’ve forgotten how to work your limbs?” Tsukki asks, as he pulls his shorts down. Yamaguchi claws for the back of his own shirt before yanking it off in one, all-too-quick twist. His throat is overrun with fog. “Uh, yeah,” his words come out soggy and unreliable as he grabs his team shirt and begins to pull it up over his head. The shirt is one size too big for him and Yamaguchi spends the next few seconds in a sore attempt to find the neck hole.

“If you stop wrestling with it, maybe it will cooperate with you.” There’s a subtle hint of annoyance to Tsukki’s tone and then Yamaguchi feels the briefest suggestion of cool knuckles against his bare spine, as Tsukki shuffles up behind him and yanks his shirt down with a short tug. Yamaguchi inhales sharply, his stomach is practically obliterated at this point. Tsukki’s already neatly side-stepped when Yamaguchi turns to stare at him. He's fully dressed already and utterly nonchalant, but Yamaguchi feels the need to say something appreciative anyway. 

“Thanks,” Yamaguchi mumbles, he makes as if to scratch the back of his head but instead, his fingers grip his own hair and he tugs a little too hard.

“You’re acting more incompetent than usual.” Tsukki remarks, and Yamaguchi wonders why it’s so difficult to just say ‘you’re welcome’. 

After the game, Yamaguchi locks himself in a bathroom stall and spends more time in there than should be polite. His thoughts boiled down to flushes of hot skin, and a stoic gaze. His head tilted backwards, eyes glazed, hand slipping in between his legs. He can't help but be ridden with a hazy, impenetrable sense of guilt afterwards. 

* * *

The ginger kid is a force of nature on the court. When he moves, there’s something so insanely fluid and natural about his movements. It’s like watching a horse on a battlefield. He may be short, but when he makes his jumps, nobody would be surprised if he blasted straight through the ceiling. He is swift and light on his feet and his shoes whine in agony, as he makes an abrupt turn on a hellbent quest for the ball.

Yamaguchi can’t help but stand on the sidelines and gawk in awe, right along with everyone else. 

He’s always known Karasuno is a prestigious school, but to be playing with these people is surreal and makes him feel like a mangy toddler that accidentally got paired with the big kids. It was after hours of watching his teammates play that he decided he has to strive to be better. He may only be a pinch server, but he needs to earn his right to be standing out there with them. Otherwise, all of this will just feel empty and undeserved. He’s never felt this before. This steely determination he’d been convinced he was born devoid of. He’d always accepted his place at the back of the class and now he wanted—truly  _wanted_  to be on the front lines. 

_Him!?_

Yeah.

Yamaguchi Tadashi—pinch server of Karasuno.  

What a useless title if it doesn’t befit the player.   

“Hinata’s something else, isn’t he?” Suga beams like a proud mother. There’s a creepy ambition behind his eyes, like he’s already dreaming of championships. 

“Yeah,” Yamaguchi nods, with an anxious smile. “I’m a little overwhelmed, to be honest.”  

At this, Suga tears his attention away from the hyperactive shrimp and searches Yamaguchi’s gaze for something. When he settles on whatever it is, he breaks into a reassuring smile. “Me too.” Suga always seems to know the right thing to say. He's a veteran in comparison to Yamaguchi and Tsukishima, so it’s placating to hear that he’s capable of still being overwhelmed by the same things. “You first-years are honestly making us old timers look bad. We’re gonna have to start leveling the playing field soon.” 

Yamaguchi gawks at Suga in open surprise. “I’m a total rookie, though and I’m not half as good as them.”  

Suga purses his lips and watches as Karasuno’s setter tosses a ball like a bolt of lightning at the impatient ginger kid. “Just don’t compare yourself to Kageyama or Hinata. They’re kind of a two-headed beast.” 

Yamaguchi stares down at his toes. “Yeah.” 

“Look, coach wouldn’t have picked you if he didn’t see something in you. I trust the coach’s judgement, and I think you’re going to be a real asset to this team. Don’t let anyone downplay the pinch server’s role. You could be what stands between the next serve and certain victory.” 

“I'll try my best to live up to your expectations.” Yamaguchi says, balling his fists and staring, hard-eyed at the likes of his talented teammates. 

 _I will find a way to climb to your level,_  he promises himself this. 

“Hey,” Suga’s tone is always tinged with thought, as if he contemplates more than he lets on. “Do you think you could infect your friend with some of that enthusiasm? He’s seeming a little lifeless lately. Have you noticed?” 

Yamaguchi’s noticed. _Of course_ he’s noticed, but it’s hard to get Tsukishima to talk to him about things—especially personal, touchy things.

Even after all this time, Tsukishima’s not the type to open up about his feelings, he’s too busy pretending he doesn’t have any.

Yamaguchi sighs, gaze captured as he stares out at him. Tsukishima’s feet barely leave the ground when he launches forward to block, his shoulders have stopped lining up with his spine and in the midst of all their avid teammates, Tsukki’s air of nonchalance sticks out like a sore thumb. Yamaguchi’s always suspected Tsukishima rarely ever gives his one hundred percent. Not since they were kids—but this is almost as if he doesn’t care anymore. Not at all.  

Is he losing interest all of a sudden or...? 

Suga is eyeing him with that scary, predominant stare of his. “Do you know what’s going on?”

“I have an inkling,” he admits. 

“You should talk to him,” Suga mumbles, before gesturing towards where their coach is perched, like an eager hawk. Even despite his ever-casual demeanour of pulled-back hair and loosely crossed legs; with whistle in hand he’s always laser-focused on their every action. “Before Coach Ukai does.” 

Even if it’s meant to be advice, it comes off sounding like a warning. Maybe it’s both? It’s always kinda hard to tell with Suga, who goes on to break into a guileless smile, clap Yamaguchi lightly on the back and skulk off to join Daichi on the opposite end of the court.  

Yamaguchi’s gaze finds Tsukishima again. Their eyes meet. Yamaguchi has a thousand things he wants to say and he says all of them without a need for words. Tsukishima blinks, like a nocturnal animal shrinking away from suggestions of light, and then, he promptly looks away, because he's become an expert at cancelling out whatever isn't immediately of interest to him.

Yamaguchi doesn’t think about how unfair it is that the person he spends most of his time with also seems to be the person who reciprocates the least, he doesn’t think about how it hurts when Tsukishima behaves like he cannot trust Yamaguchi with his absurd, seemingly unbeating heart. He doesn’t want to think about anything at all as someone shouts his name and he bounds forward towards inner court. Yamaguchi needs to vitally improve on his serves and while his receives are okay, Tanaka’s last strike has him curled up on his side, as he holds onto his throbbing diaphragm in pain. When they finally call quits on practice; once they’re showered and changed, Coach Ukai gives them a scathing, but well meaning review while Takeda sensei plays good cop and helps balance out any lingering unease. “Yamaguchi,” Coach uses the sort of tone Yamaguchi has often heard FBI interrogators use with criminals on tv. “ _You_  control the ball. It’s not the other way around. Got it?” It feels like such obvious advice that Yamaguchi feels stupid for the seventeenth time that day. He nods and swallows his irritation; swift and avoiding its taste, like cough syrup down the throat. The resolve is beginning to build a tidal wave within him. 

“You’re uncharacteristically quiet,” Tsukishima points out, as they make their routine walk back home. The late evening sky is a heavy, dark-blue mirror of an ocean floor and the stadium lights in the distance tinge the clouds faintly, with fuzzy shells of orange light. It’s not cold and it’s not warm but Yamaguchi’s got shivers gnawing at his spine. He keeps replaying his every faltering step and then, comparing them to the feats of his teammates—he’s so tired of being the grasshopper. He just wants to get better so that he can stand alongside these people and feel like he’s really a part of the team, so that he can prove to himself that maybe he does have what it takes to be something other than painfully average. 

Tsukishima’s got his hefty headphones clogging his ears and his hands stuffed deep in his pockets and he’s been making the walk so far with the same devil-may-care attitude he’d tracked onto court. Even despite the spike in Tsukishima’s recently frustrating behaviour, their walks home are usually a quiet ritual, so Yamaguchi’s a little surprised Tsukishima has anything to say about it at all. 

Yamaguchi shoots him a frown. “I’m just… thinking, I guess.”  

“ _You’re_  thinking?” Tsukishima’s eyebrows disappear beneath blond ringlets and there’s a buoyant, playful hint in his voice that reminds Yamaguchi fondly of when they were children. “Groundbreaking. Don't think too hard, okay? You’ll develop a headache.” 

“Yeah, yeah. Fuck you, too.” 

“Have I stepped into the Twilight Zone or did you just cuss at me?” 

“Maybe I did. Can you even hear me over your music?”  
  
“Hm? What?”

“Asshole.”

“Whoa. There. You did it again!” Tsukishima’s smirking now. This is the side of him that the others don’t often get to see, the side of him Yamaguchi doesn’t honestly mind keeping all to himself. Tsukishima always feels the need to keep the world at such an arm's length, that it’s easy to forget that he’s not all neatly trimmed edges and condescending remarks. Yamaguchi can’t exactly put a name to it, but he thinks that when Tsukishima’s like this—unguarded and cracking lame jokes and smiling with all his teeth—that maybe the world is a better place than it is and maybe flowers bloom faster around him.

Yamaguchi thinks that if he were a sunflower, at least he would no longer need an excuse to keep looking up at Tsukishima.

“Lame-Boy,” Tsukishima lets out a mock gasp. “What’s possessing you?” 

Yamaguchi halts and then—face burning and thoughts suddenly going venomous, turns to Tsukishima.  _“I could ask you the same question.”_

When the other boy merely blinks at him, Yamaguchi takes a step forward, close enough that his face is merely a breath away from Tsukishima’s; his inhibitions forgotten within the heat of the moment. All he knows is that he needs to speak up before his nerve plumments.  

 _“Why do you play?”_ he asks, expression hardening. Tsukishima’s on the other hand, is calm and percipient. “I’m not honestly sure anymore.” The tone of his voice isn't remotely indecisive, but a finality. His eyes invoke icy river water. When Yamaguchi realizes that something much deeper has been going on with Tsukishima all this time, looking at him feels like staring at the aftermath of a storm. Yamaguchi somehow, despite the tumult in his chest, manages to keep his faultline of a gaze steady.

He didn’t expect to be handed the truth without having to tread on a quest for it.  

Tsukishima’s gaze doesn’t waver either. “My brother’s a failure. Everything I believed about him turned out to be a lie. I’ve wasted all this time chasing after a goal built on the ideals of a pathetic liar.”

The words wilt on Yamaguchi’s tongue. He wants to say something useful, but Tsukishima beats him to the punch. “Don’t bother. I’ve already moved on from it. I just don’t see the point of wasting my energy on a stupid after-school kids club, like the rest of you.” He searches Tsukishima’s face for a dreg of any kind of emotion, what he finds is blackened and expired like dried blood. Yamaguchi’s cheeks flame hotter, he feels weirdly defeated and sapped of energy. He wants to say something unpleasant, but he doesn’t have the stomach to spit it out. (There’s a part of him that wants to clock Tsukki, just a quick introduction of knuckles to the jaw. To wake him up, to snap him out of this ridiculous funk. Maybe to get him to sit down and explain whatever it is that actually happened a little better. There’s another part of him that just wants to pull the idiot in and  _kiss_  some sense into him, but Yamaguchi can’t dare to be that bold, and he’s never kissed anyone before anyway; not unless you count his batty, overbearing aunt who comes around during every holiday weekend and smacks him with a big, sloppy kiss to the side of the mouth. The point is, he can’t risk losing the friendship he’s managed to create with Tsukishima, even if it hurts.) 

“Just like that?” he asks, weakly. 

“Just like that.” 

Tsukishima turns away from him and carries on walking.

Yamaguchi can almost feel the disappointment staining the air, like black factory smoke, but he isn’t sure which one of them the smoke belongs to.

* * *

Yamaguchi is lying down on his spine and hugging a volleyball to his chest.

He stares up at his ceiling riddled with a shoddy galaxy of those stick-on glow stars, now snubbed of their glow from use. The lights are off and stray bars of moonlight trickle in, affraying the dark. Yamaguchi’s house is situated at an unfortunate proximity to the railway station, so there’s the sudden, rumbling wheeze of a passerby train every few minutes. He’s made his peace with it now, to a point where the sound is almost comforting. Yamaguchi has built quite the habit of finding comfort in the uncanny over the years, like how the thought of being the average guy no longer scares the shit out of him, or how he can shove under the rug all the times he’s be convinced he's falling for his best friend. Yamaguchi sighs and allows the ball to dribble off his chest, past the edge of the bed and onto the ground. He’s sore all over from practice and his stomach is still in knots from that surprisingly, emotionally charged confrontation earlier. 

He can’t stop replaying the moment over in his head—again and again in a hellish loop as if his brain were reduced to a television only capable of relaying a single channel. Tsukishima’s pupils blown wide and constrained. The tension in his shoulders wrong; like a ruptured bow-string. Yamaguchi had been able to feel it there, manifesting against his own fingers, through the material of Tsukishima’s shirt. How the outrage had appeared out of thin air and suddenly taken control. Any spare thought for consequence had dissolved, to be replaced with the sort of disbelief that mutated hot and immense and felt all too much like uncapped kerosene, overspilling and inciting flames. He’d never thought he’d ever manage to summon the guts to corner someone like Tsukishima in such a way, to be able to stand up and wrench the words out of his throat, out of his heart like a magical sword from an impossible stone.

It was probably the first time he’d ever felt the urge to yell at the top of his lungs at his best friend, the person he so admired, the person he’d thought was so very strong for being capable of doing the same—voicing his honest thoughts without a second’s regard to the effect they might have, to not give a damn about the invisible hierarchies of the world and just speak his mind. What more motivation did he need other than pride, after all. It was the first time Yamaguchi had truly managed to snatch the rug out from beneath Tsukishima and catch him off guard. 

Yamaguchi’s stomach overspills with honey at the thought of the look on his best friend’s face. It was a contagion of newfangled respect, and the words that followed… Maybe it’s stupid to give so much gravitas to something as seemingly inconsequential as Tsukishima calling him  _cool_ , but it meant so much coming from him that it leaves Yamaguchi’s heart thrilling with newborn heat. 

There’s a sudden knock on his bedroom door. Yamaguchi idly wonders if his ears are ringing. It’s Tsukishima’s knock. Just a single, unceremonious tap. He probably doesn’t even use every single one of his knuckles to do it. “Come in,” Yamaguchi mutters, mouth so incredibly dry it feels difficult to get it around the words. The door cracks open an inch—introducing a bright white vein to the dark. It’s just enough for Tsukishima’s body to slip in through, and he shuts the door quietly behind him.

“Your mother let me in,” he explains, voice temperate and casual. “You weren’t asleep, were you?”

“Nope.” 

Yamaguchi strains his neck to look at the other boy. Tsukishima’s in sweatpants and a round-collared graphic t-shirt, his hair is its usual neatly combed spill of short curls and Yamaguchi has to dig his nails into his palms to resist the urge to reach out and glide his fingers through them. The light from his half-open window is cautious and airy, as a thin gash slants over his face and makes the golden-brown of Tsukishima’s eyes glow, unfairly brighter than his ceiling of fake stars.

Yamaguchi hopes his voice doesn’t come off sounding too craven, but watching Tsukishima appear at ten o'clock at night, like some kind of dream through his bedroom door is _doing things_ to him—chaotic, wonderful, languorous things.

“You can turn on the light if you want.” 

“I’m good.” 

He wants to ask: is everything okay? The words don’t come out, because maybe he’s used up all his words for the day. Tsukishima doesn’t seem to mind. He doesn’t seem to have anything to say either. Yamaguchi soundlessly shifts over and makes space for him on the bed. Tsukishima navigates his way through the dark and grabs a pillow, before propping down next to him. There’s a fraction of his demeanor that seems out of place, something Yamaguchi is only able to catch after so long knowing him, but he’s too tired to be able to put a finger on what it might exactly be. It seems a little uncertain, a little like the air in between them might’ve turned from hail to rain. His spine is all too straight, even as he leans against the headboard. He’s got one leg spread out in front of him and the other pulled up towards his chest. It’s almost like he’s afraid of taking up too much space, so Yamaguchi shifts closer to the wall in order to let him know (wordlessly) that he can take up as much space as he likes. Their elbows touch. Yamaguchi wants more than their elbows to touch.

The rift in Tsukki’s relationship with his brother has undeniably changed him, but Yamaguchi’s hoping to help make that change be for the better.  

They spend a long time in silence. This silence is healing and familiar and something they’ve been cultivating since they were little kids. If it was a sapling once, it’s a fully grown tree now; fruiting with wordless whispers. What’s new is Tsukishima being the one to ultimately break that silence.  

“You can’t see my face, can you?”

It’s a weird thing to ask, but Yamaguchi won’t question it. Not tonight.

He’d stepped out of the window’s light, so Yamaguchi is tracing the serrated, haunting gilt of Tsukishima’s shadow along the wall instead.  

“Not really. Why?”  

“I don’t want to be a cautionary tale.”  

“Huh?”

“I don’t want to end up like my brother, but sometimes, when I watch Hinata play it feels like… Maybe my best won’t ever be  _the_  best.” Tsukishima’s voice is riddled with threads of emotion that tie themselves around Yamaguchi’s neck and drag him down with them. “And if I’m never going to be the best. Why am I trying? Is pride really enough to justify the risk?” 

Yamaguchi pushes himself up despite the whole-body ache curtailing through him. They’re friends, right? They’ve been getting closer lately. It’s only fair. “You’re afraid of getting hurt,” he says, simply.

“Shut up, Yamaguchi.” Tsukishima’s words are a heatless hiss. 

“No. Just—God. Just admit it for once. You’re afraid of getting hurt. There’s nothing wrong with that. I’ve felt like this my entire life. Welcome to the bottom of the barrel. The epitome of  _lame_ dom. It’s pretty shitty down here, isn’t it? At least we’re in it together.”  

Tsukishima is watching him. He can feel his gaze like a firefly, landing on his finger. Yamaguchi doesn’t know if it’s just a mirage of shadows, but Tsukishima’s features shift as if he might start tearing up. It’s so foreign that it blows a hole through Yamaguchi’s ribs. He’s never seen Tsukishima shed a tear because that’s not the sort of thing he ever does in the company of someone else. So it’s kind of a revelation when Yamaguchi’s fingers find Tsukishima’s out of old habit. He slides his fingers through the gaps in Tsukishima’s over his thigh, like closing up a wound, and locks their gazes equally tight. 

“Together,” Tsukishima repeats, mindlessly—and it sounds like he’s searching for a question mark at the end of the word that doesn’t quite belong. 

“We can own it. They’ll call us Yamasucky and Shittyshima!” 

When Tsukishima doesn’t react to the silly joke, Yamaguchi’s tone darkens. There’s a loud agitation in his chest, like a fresh, itchy burn.

“It’s funny,” he admits, an unwelcome smile creeping up his face, like a joke shared only with himself. “You see yourself as weak and I legitimately thought you were the strongest person I’d ever met.”

Tsukishima’s lower lip trembles ever-so slightly, his eyes are open graves or maybe it’s the lack of light. Yamaguchi badly wants to blame it on a trick of the light. It’s almost as if he’s trying to deny himself something. His fingers twitch warmly against Yamaguchi’s. For the briefest of heartbreaking moments, Yamaguchi thinks he’s going to lean in close and kiss him. His lips slightly parted, his gaze heavy—he’s got that expression on his face that people get just before they go in to kiss someone, but maybe Yamaguchi’s just starting to see what he wants to see and it’s all in his head. That or the light.

“That’s the exact line of thought that makes you so lame.”  

“Wasn’t I cool just a few hours ago?” 

“Statement rescinded.” 

“Hey, no take-backs! You barely compliment me as it is. Let me have this one moment of glory. I need gloating material, okay?” 

Tsukishima actually lets escape a short, breathy laugh, and Yamaguchi thinks that he’ll be happy if that ends up being the only sound in the universe that he’s privy to.

“It’s all a matter of perspective,” Tsukishima goes on to say.

Yamaguchi shifts a little closer. “What is?”

“With all the insane practice you’ve been doing lately, the whole team's counting on you to score come the next big game. I’d say that’s pretty strong, if you compare it to the how you used to chicken out before.” 

This, too, Yamaguchi will accept. This compliment crafted with so much consideration put into making it  _not_  sound like a compliment. Tsukishima’s hand feels like a sun-warmed bench. “Thank you, Tsukki.” 

“You’re welcome.” His tone is flat, detached.  _Why does he always have to go back to talking like that?_

Tsukishima inhales sharply and what follows sounds like it might be a sob, but could also be him clearing his throat. Cautiously, wantingly, Yamaguchi lets the hilt of his thumb brush Tsukishima’s inner wrist. When he detects no protest—he runs small, lilting circles up and around his palms to trace his lifelines, hoping to memorize the sunken flight paths of them. Yamaguchi’s stomach is a bonafide pit of lava. His fingers journey further upwards, he wants to learn the boyish jut of Tsukishima’s delicate knuckles, trace the long length of his fingers and feel the strong veins coursing underneath there. He can feel the agitated skin running along hard, overused bone, the garden of various welts and rashes caused from a history of wielding painful blocks. He wants to bring his hand up to his mouth and press a kiss to every inch but he knows he won’t be able to dream up the courage. 

Instead, a question sparks his mind.

“Hey, Tsukki?”

“Mm?”

“Why does it matter if I can see your face?”

Tsukishima tenses under his touch. Yamaguchi lets go immediately, not wanting to take advantage of his best friend for having a vulnerable moment, or make him uncomfortable in the slightest. He pauses for a moment, waiting for a reaction; even though he’s confident it’ll be inevitably negative. He hears Tsukki pull in another, long breath through his nose and it’s a few seconds before he exhales. Yamaguchi watches his hands—the hands he’d been holding only a fleeting minute ago, now curled into a fist and retreating into Tsukishima’s shirt like they’re something to hide. 

“I don’t like being looked at.” 

“I’ve noticed,” it takes every inch of self control within Yamaguchi to keep his tone even.  

“Especially by you.” 

“Oh,”

“I can’t stand it when you look at me with those puppy eyes like a girl.” Tsukishima’s words add a thousand insults to injury. Yamaguchi’s going to have to do that thing where people spiritually leave their bodies, just in order to process the pain of a given moment. He can’t even formulate a thought outside of the crushing, scathing reality of the words.  

“Okay,” he squeaks. “I didn’t mean to I—” 

“Let me finish,” Tsukki replies, tone clipped. It’s too late. Yamaguchi’s heart caught fire and imploded and even the ashes have been obliterated. “I didn’t care about you for a long time. To be honest, when we first started hanging out, I only spent time around you because I felt bad for you.” Yamaguchi doesn’t know where Tsukishima’s going with this, but he’s past the point of being able to withstand it.  _I may have gotten better physically, but I’m not like you, Tsukki. I’ll never be strong._  The tears are already poking at his eyes, hot and painful. His throat’s a carcass. _Just stop talking—_  

“I’m not trying to hurt your feelings, Yamaguchi. I just want to be honest with you before I do this.”  

“Tsukki, just… Wait. What?”

“I’ve never been proficient at handling relationships. I think that’s primarily why what my brother did felt like such a low blow. I’m not cool. I... I thrive on fear. I’m afraid all the fucking time about everything, and that’s why I’m always hostile around people. I learnt at a young age that treating everyone else like they were smaller automatically made them see me as superior to them. It’s human nature, I guess. Cruel as it was, it proved effective.” He runs an idle hand through his hair, as if saying it out loud is making it all a little too real for him. “You infuriate me because… No matter how much I tried to push you away, it just made you latch on to me even tighter. I’ve never been able to comprehend your fascination with me. But—You’ve been a really good friend to me, even when I often treat you like shit. I won’t deny that.” Tsukishima takes a shaky breath, as if building up the nerve to say whatever he’s going to say next. “I want to say thank you.”  

Yamaguchi’s mind bottoms out and suddenly, he’s got no footing left to stand on. 

“...You do?”

Now there are cool fingers pressing into his eyes, so soft they could be mistaken for cotton buds. His eyes are wet from tears he hates. He’s always been so fragile, so easily hurt. He bets Tsukishima can feel the moisture under his own skin from the wet grit that still lingers along his eyelashes.  

“Can you see my face, Yamaguchi?” his voice is a low, deliberate purr. Yamaguchi has forgotten how to breathe, his lungs are as good as blown out tires. He wants to say something, anything, he wants to pull away, he wants to lean in close. He wants to understand, he wants to die. He wants—he just  _wants_.

“No.” 

Yamaguchi can’t see anything at all, but he can feel Tsukishima’s breath feathering against his mouth in low, short gusts. Their faces must be close, closer than should be friendly. Yamaguchi’s heart is hammering so hard in his ribcage that it practically drowns out all else. Now the fingers sift down his cheek and cup the side of his neck. The touch provides a sea of building shivers and Yamaguchi hopes to god Tsukishima can’t feel the way his pulse is going berserk. Their noses brush and Yamaguchi stops breathing altogether. 

Tsukishima’s skin is all the things Yamaguchi has been steeling himself against. Whatever’s going to happen now, Tsukishima is taking his own sweet time with it. Who even knows. Maybe he likes the idea of rendering Yamaguchi’s limbs to puddles. A second hand appears at his neck, locking at his nape and pinning them together, even as no other part of their bodies touch. Yamaguchi hears Tsukishima swallow, the hands at his neck seem uncertain, fearful and yet rather intent and gentle. For a split second, just to keep the curiosity from whittling him down, Yamaguchi opens his eyes. They briefly produce dark splotches of colors before his gaze sharpens on Tsukishima’s face. His eyes are closed, lashes dipping and catching the barest splashes of light, cheeks hot pink and hollow. When Yamaguchi’s eyes close again, it’s on instinct—as he feels the sudden bloom of Tsukishima’s mouth pressed reverently against his own.

At first, it’s awkward and slow and Yamaguchi isn’t sure what way to tilt his head to provide the best angle. The feel of Tsukishima’s mouth is like the rim of a warm cup of tea and his lips are softer than anything Yamaguchi’s ever felt and if this is what kissing really feels like—he never wants to stop doing it for the rest of his life. Tsukishima’s tongue momentarily rests against Yamaguchi’s own like a strip of gum, making Yamaguchi suck in a startled breath. Yamaguchi allows the tip of his tongue to scrape Tsukishima’s bottom teeth and feels a pleasing thrill in his chest at the small shudder it produces in Tsukishima’s shoulders. He’s easing into it now, allowing the current to guide him rather than the other way around. The kiss is languid and clumsy and a bit of a revelation. Yamaguchi’s right hand anchors itself in Tsukishima’s hair, but instead of tugging, he just holds on like his life’s at stake, his other palm is flat against Tsukishima’s chest. The firm muscle beneath his shirt reacts to the touch, in a sharp contraction. There are a million thoughts upending into Yamaguchi’s head, only for them to be torn away from him by the ever-rapid currents. Tsukishima’s mouth tastes a little bit like starfruit and his skin smells of clean soap. Yamaguchi’s heart is pounding so hard he’s afraid Tsukishima can feel it in their kiss somehow, usurping it; but nothing of the sort happens.

When the kiss is finally broken, they’re both heaving, and Yamaguchi’s still got tears staining his face. He’s staring up at Tsukki in outright awe, lips twisted with bewilderment and adherence and an irritatingly bold new sense of desertion. Tsukishima’s lips are drawn up in a smooth line and his face is so pretty in the afterglow, it makes Yamaguchi want to seize that look and pocket it. It’s drugging him. This night, the way Tsukishima’s looking at him. He even pinches his own arm, just to make sure. _Nope. This is real, apparently. This is happening._

“Why are you crying?” Tsukishima asks. “Stop it.”

“I’m starting to think you’re allergic to emotion,” Yamaguchi teases, softly. “Or is it just me. Do I do this to you?”

Tsukishima scowls. “Seriously. Stop crying,”

“I’m weak, remember?”

“If you keep calling yourself that, then yes. You are.” Tsukishima says, but then he’s falling back against the ridge of the bed, wrapping an arm around Yamaguchi’s waist and pulling him down, gently against his chest. 

Yamaguchi readjusts his weight so that he isn’t putting too much pressure on Tsukishima and after much deliberation, allows his arms to curl around Tsukishima’s shoulders. They’re fully clothed, of course, but he doesn’t think he really cares. Their stomachs are pressed together and Yamaguchi’s cheek rests on Tsukishima’s chest as he runs ghost fingers along Tsukishima’s collarbone, trailing the depression that follows before disappearing into the top of Tsukishima’s shirt.  

“Have you ever done that before?” Yamaguchi asks. “Kissed someone, I mean?”

“No. You?” Tsukishima’s voice is a low rumble that Yamaguchi can feel against his own chest. It’s so weird, but good-weird, like feeling content wrapped up in blankets while a thunderstorm churns outside. His mind is rampant with anxiety-ridden thoughts. What if his breath smells terrible? What if Tsukishima thinks his freckles are ugly? Is he putting too much weight on him? What if he’s the worst kisser in the world? What if now that Tsukishima’s curbed a curiosity, he’s decided this was all a terrible idea and goes as far as to dub their friendship eternally ruined? There’s another part of him, though—and it’s silent but feels like a kick to the back of the knees. He’s off-balance. He’s in uncharted territory. He’s afraid. He’s never done this before and yet… It feels okay. It feels right. Tsukishima is still a little tense beneath him, but he’s beginning to relax steadily. The hair on the back of Yamaguchi’s neck stand on end when trim fingers appear at the base of his back. Yamaguchi shivers as if from a warm whisper and Tsukishima’s eyes are somehow both dull and dead-set. Yamaguchi can’t stop looking into them as he carefully peels his glasses off and sets them down on the bedside table. “You’re the first. Unless my creepy aunt counts.” His eyes remind Yamaguchi of the prettiest things: tiered chandeliers and liquid caramel. Yamaguchi’s heart upends for the millionth time. 

Tsukishima looks pleased. “Tell me more about this creepy aunt.” 

Yamaguchi laughs, shortly. “I don’t want to kill the moment.”

“We’re having a moment, is that it?”

“Well,” Yamaguchi’s voice is small. “I hope so. When did you find out that I—had—uh  _have_  feelings for you?”

“I’ve always known.”

“Am I that obvious?”  

“I liked kissing you,” Tsukishima admits, in a voice like a drop in temperature. Yamaguchi decides this is the best non-sequitur he’s ever heard. 

“I think I might’ve used too much tongue,” he admits into Tsukishima’s chest. 

“Ha, I was afraid I’d bite you or something.”

“Would you maybe want to try again?”

“Sure.”

This time, when their lips meet, the feeling between them; previously colloquial and untranslatable, solidifies. Their mouths hungry and hot and caught up in thoughtless reunion. It’s only when Tsukishima’s hands travel the dangerously small distance past his lungs below his abdomen that Yamaguchi abruptly rips his mouth away, his heart bunching up in his chest like a crumpled piece of paper.  

“Are you okay?”

Beneath him, Tsukki’s face is pearl-white in contrast to the flushed length of his long neck, as if he’s maybe got roses trapped underneath his skin. Yamaguchi bites into his tongue hard enough to draw blood and rolls off the other boy, crashing onto his side and blocking his face with his hands. He feels like his body’s suddenly aflame with shame. 

“We can’t anymore—” Yamaguchi wonders if he sounds as dejected as he feels. Tsukishima blinks at him a moment, until his eyes trail down Yamaguchi’s chest and halt somewhere right below his waistline. Their clothes aren’t even off. How can he be so disgustingly  _easy_? How incredibly embarrassing. “I’m sorry,” Yamaguchi’s mouth tastes like a rusted nail. Tsukishima merely stares at him a moment, and Yamaguchi can’t tell whether he’s upset or not so he says nothing at all and waits for his shame to burn him to the ground. There’s no point attempting to hide it at this point, but the guilt will eat him raw. Then, Tsukishima does something surprising. He breaks into a bright, open-mouthed laugh. The kind that’s so rare coming from him that Yamaguchi’s chest grows lighter despite the dread piling up within him. 

Yamaguchi draws his eyebrows up. “What’s so funny?”   

“Come here,” Tsukishima mumbles, before turning onto his side, so that they’re facing each other. He runs a hand down Yamaguchi’s cheek and curls a random strand of hair behind his ear. His touch is polite and sweet and filled with good intention. He shifts a little and brings his face close enough that it affects Yamaguchi’s breathing, before rising up and planting a firm kiss to his temple. “We should go to bed. It’s getting late,” his words are strangely adoring and breathy. The relief is overpowering as Yamaguchi snuggles closer, until the tips of their noses brush and he allows one of Tsukishima’s hands to rest between his cheek and the cool pillow.

“Okay,” he agrees, pulling his legs (now rendered weak and meaningless), up to his chest. “Let’s go to sleep.”  

Tsukishima falls asleep first. He’s the quietest sight in the room with his features all smoothened out like butter. Yamaguchi’s caught up in the flirtation of his eyelashes with the light as he blinks dreamily, how he breathes softly from his nose and manages to keep his lips pinned loosely together. Yamaguchi has been told he always sleeps with his mouth hanging open, so the quirk in itself seems rather miraculous and plenty endearing. There’s other things, too. The fact that one of Tsukishima’s legs is coiled around Yamaguchi’s, touching from ankle all the way to hip. The heat of his hand beneath his cheek like the soft inside of a shell. The way his baby hair unfurl past his ears; all untidy from Yamaguchi locking his fingers in them earlier. The feel of falling asleep next to someone else—not just anyone,  _Tsukishima_.  

Yamaguchi can’t help but think that it finally makes sense. He only wishes he’d figured it out sooner. Of course Tsukishima acts out of fear. It was stupid of him to have ever introduced that distinction in between them, the one that paints himself as a victim and Tsukishima as this valliant, untouchable being. Maybe their friendship does make sense after all. Tsukishima doesn’t exist on some higher physical plane; he’s a dork who likes the hookiest of puns and pretty much uses books as a substitute for opiates. Tsukishima is capable of being down to earth and human and unequivocally  _kissing_  Yamaguchi.

The world is split into the weak and the strong. Maybe that philosophy was flawed from the beginning of time. Maybe things aren’t as simple as that. Maybe they never will be. If the human world were to operate on the rules of the animal kingdom, there’d be utter mayhem anyway, right? 

Maybe there is no concept of weak and strong.  

Just people trying their hardest to achieve one or settling for the other.

Yamaguchi does not want to settle. He’s been settling his entire life. Apparently, Tsukishima feels the same way. What had he said? _It’s all a matter of perspective._ Now he has volleyball. He’s not Hinata and he’s not a third-year, but he has the will to keep trying. Maybe _trying_ is enough. It doesn’t matter if he goes out onto the court and doesn’t score the first time, or the second or even the fiftieth. He’ll keep trying. He’ll keep trying until he’s not alive to try any longer, because Tsukishima kissed him first—and if that can happen, Yamaguchi is convinced anything is possible. So, yeah. Maybe he’s in love with his best friend. Maybe his best friend loves him back. Maybe it’s too early for it to be love. Maybe he’s been in love ever since they were little kids. Enough conjecture. All he has is the truth curled up like a cat against his side. He watches the subtle edge of Tsukishima’s shoulders rising and falling as he breathes, reduced to a travelling shadow in the dark. He nuzzles further into his palm—this boy he’d been convinced would never be his. Unguarded and so incredibly quaint. The stiffness in his pants has gone away. Next time, they’ll try again and he will do better because there’s nothing to be ashamed about. Not with Tsukishima. Not anymore. That escaped laugh was as much of a reassurance as another sinking kiss to the lips. Maybe they’re both strong and they’re both weak in their own ways. Yamaguchi is weak because he never could’ve built up the courage to tell Tsukishima how he really feels and Tsukishima is strong for rendering that whole thought process meaningless. Maybe Yamaguchi is the strong one, for keeping it all pent up inside, and Tsukishima’s weak for providing them with an outlet that lets their feelings out into the forefront. No, no. Neither of those statements feel true at all. One day, Yamaguchi is going to rip those two words right out of his dictionary. Right now, he wonders idly if their heartbeats match. 

When Yamaguchi falls asleep, it’s to the sight of Tsukishima’s face.

**Author's Note:**

> please leave me a comment if you liked it, i'd appreciate it more than you know. <3  
> come talk to me on [tumblr](http://winterblues.tumblr.com)  
> i was inspired by this piece of [beautiful fanart](https://78.media.tumblr.com/117d787ed068a9d7e84085f430eef47f/tumblr_inline_p3sp980uoK1szyca0_500.jpg) i do not know who the artist is but they deserve all the credit


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